


Casualties

by bexacaust



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M.I.A, Other, Reflection, Trine as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6967357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not running, just enough of a wreck<br/>To hold the hurt heart everybody expects<br/>And I know you wrote a history of making a mess<br/>Misunderstood’s an understatement at best…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casualties

How long, now, have you been without them?

Pacing to and fro like the flight of a flockless starling; looking to the sky to pray to whatever God watches you for the sound of sliced thermals and thrusters. To see streaks of blue and violet arc through the sky to land with the hiss of shifting steel and greet you with carefully masked joy.

Tell us, how long; **_how long_** has it been since you saw them?

When was it they stopped appearing at your side, since your wings twitched from the sudden warmth of a familiar frame beside you?

Was it between reports as a sun climbed tiredly into a war burnt sky? Perhaps it was between the rasped notes of a vidcomm call, as you dutifully recited the details of another mission gone right… or maybe **wrong**.

You are pacing again, back and forth, ebb and flow; a haphazard tide of emotions and loneliness.

Did they vanish between the click of console keys, or the shushing noise of a datapad’s stylus over a screen? Maybe it was the **temper** , that had always done you in… With everyone. The frustration with yourself, your soldiers, your mission; and you’d snap with eloquence like razorblades and optics like the core of a nuclear reactor in meltdown.

Maybe it was the **silence** that chased them away. Where once the soft sounds of Seekers in repose flitted about like moths in the dusk there was only the sound of busywork and files. A room filled in the low hum of Thundercracker’s half-aware showtunes was now empty of life and motion. A room where Skywarp cackled high and keening as he bounced from the furniture and the walls and animatedly spoke of battle and victory lacked vibrancy, lacked exuberance…

Maybe it was the yelling; the arguments. Do you realize now they only ever loved you? They only ever worried as your appearance grew haggard and unkempt only to be smoothed away before you left in the dawn hours to pay homage to a leader you felt failed you. Maybe it was **that** , that chased them so far away. So far away as to be nonexistent.

Pace, pace; click, clack.

Your steps are so loud, so heavy. **Why?** What weighs you down in your glory days?

Thousands, millions of casualties racked up in four million **years** of war.

Maybe **billions** ; whole _generations_ lost.

But none of them matter, do they? Not to **you**.

No one matters to the Seeker Commander; not until the scouting party returns with heavy sparks to say that nothing remained of the two “possible Seekers” seen shot down a million miles and years away from him.

_“There’s a chance…”_ , they say.

_“Of?”_ , you answer, keeping your voice level.

_“… A chance they have been taken prisoner.”_

Is that your **spark** breaking, Starscream? Is that your processor **stalling** ; the sound of **heaven itself** falling down around you in chunks of marble and broken promises as you realize that you will **never** see them again?

How long, now, have you been without your _ **trine**_?


End file.
